


Ever After

by MagpieCrown



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Dimitri's Mental Health Issues, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Indirect Suicide, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Canon, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:42:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28731390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagpieCrown/pseuds/MagpieCrown
Summary: The king marries and lives happily ever after, and his kingdom prospers for centuries to come....Right?
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 23
Kudos: 68





	Ever After

**Author's Note:**

> the tags pretty much say it all. this is not a happy fic :") tread lightly.  
> to clarify the "Unreliable Narrator" tag specifically: felix has a somewhat skewed idea of dealing with mental health issues. faerghus's educational system TM definitely shines through, but he tries his best.
> 
> I'm crying on [twitter](https://twitter.com/royalcorvids) about dimitri 24/7

_I desired to stay with you -_

_I already managed to dare._

Dimitri is acting strange.

It’s honestly ridiculous how long it takes Felix to put his finger on it. Because everything seems fine, or as fine as it can get this soon after the war when everything is still shaky and unsure and they crash blindly through the uncharted territories of ruling a country that used to be three less than a year ago.

So maybe it’s not _that_ ridiculous, after all, that Felix doesn’t immediately put two and two together.

It happens at yet another meeting. The Master of Coin complains on and on about the state of the ever-dwindling treasury, and Dimitri ends up shutting him down - with firmness but without anger, the sure, easy way of authority fitting him by now as well as his cloak. An unspoken promise to revisit the issue hangs in the air, and the scribe checks the agenda, preparing to announce the next topic.

Felix is watching Dimitri - as he often does, and even moreso recently, because Dimitri is, well, there is _something_ about him accepting the mantle of his legacy. There is something about the gilded circlet shining in his soft hair, something about the way the royal embroidery follows the lines of his shoulders and chest and down to his waist and…

...Anyway. Felix is watching Dimitri - and that’s why he notices it, how his expression slips for a moment, how in the short pause he morphs from a king into - into what? - and then back into a king again.

A chill runs up Felix’s spine, making the hairs on his nape stand on end.

The cordial mask, the measured gestures, the detached, polite expressions.

He is pretending again.

Fuck.

How long has this been going on? How long ago has he splintered back into all these faces again? Felix rifles through his memories, feels his back chill further.

So what happens now? Is he going to revert back to how he was since - since the Rebellion? Since Duscur? All this talk about both sides of him being one and the same - was it a convenient lie?

Busied with his realization, Felix misses a portion of the discussion and resurfaces in the middle of someone suggesting yet _again_ that it’s long overdue for Dimitri to marry.

A very familiar pain squeezes Felix’s heart at the thought, momentarily distracting him from his alarm. He glances carefully in Dimitri’s direction.

“I really don’t think this is relevant right now,” Dimitri responds, and there it is again - something flickers in his expression - how does nobody else see it?! “I would much rather focus on more pressing issues. We will talk of it no more.”

A slimy, cheap kind of relief pools in Felix’s chest at his words, but he ignores it. Is practiced enough in ignoring it.

He hunts Dimitri down after the meeting, finding him in his private study. Dimitri nods at him, unsurprised - while there was no invitation, they’ve ended up taking a break together like this enough times by now - and Felix settles into an armchair opposite from Dimitri.

He would much rather stand, move, pace - sitting feels too constricting, the back of the armchair curving around him like a cage. And he would much rather ask Dimitri directly.

He would much rather do many things differently. But for Dimitri, he will try.

“They won’t leave you alone until you marry, you know,” Felix begins and smoothes a wince from his face.

So much for trying.

Dimitri’s smile is wry. He rolls his eye. “There seems to be a consensus that the sole fact of me being married is this magical solution to all our problems as a nation.”

Felix huffs through his nose. As if this is a fairy-tale. The king marries and lives happily ever after, and his kingdom prospers for centuries to come.

Dimitri’s response is sarcastic, but there is a sadness in him, in the way he lowers his gaze, keeps the line of it away from Felix. _That_ is what he’s seen flickering in him - Dimitri is sad.

Felix opens his mouth to ask about it, but there is a knock on the door, and a servant brings in their tea. It has already been steeped, and Felix holds the cup in his gloved hands, breathes in the sharp smell that tingles the back of his throat with spices.

“Are you opposed to it, though?” Felix asks after a pause.

His reflection in the cup is distorted from the awkward angle. Huge nostrils, puffy lower eyelids. He glares at it.

“To marriage in general? Not at all.”

Dimitri falls silent, and Felix glances up at him. He will still not look at Felix, not until Felix clears his throat.

“It is a conundrum, isn't it?” Dimitri says, shrugs; the stiff embroidery strains against his shoulders. “Marrying just for the sake of it is not fair to the other party, is it? I should wish to marry for love, but…” he trails off and sighs, lifts a hand as if to run it through his hair but remembers himself in time.

Felix frowns. “But what?”

Dimitri gestures at himself, the motion jerky and quiet and sad.

Felix only grows more confused. “Words, Dimitri. But what?”

A soft sound of silk brushing against porcelain as Dimitri runs a finger along the rim of his cup.

“Who would want me.” He presses his lips together, looks away again.

Felix scoffs in disbelief, wondering if he should feel insulted.

Dimitri can’t mean it, surely? With all his - with all of _this._ The way he looks, the way he carries himself, his huge, shiny-golden, goddess-damned bleeding heart - how can he honestly believe whatever lies he’s telling himself?

As if there is any shortage in nobles throwing their children at him? As if the topic of his marriage is not the hottest in the entirety of Fhirdiad at the very least? Is he blind? Deaf?

What is he not worthy of? After emerging victorious from everything he’s been through? Hurt, yes, and haunted, and maybe with a few cracks, but who of them isn’t? Does it mean he’s not worthy of love?

Is that what this idiot thinks? Is that why he’s so maudlin all of a sudden? Because he thinks he’s unloved? Uncherished? 

Well, Felix _will_ cherish him. If this is the reason, he will make sure that Dimitri never gets this damned look on his face again. Simple as that.

And it _is_ simple, after all. Felix's entire self might be made up of contradictions and spite and too many sharp edges, but his - his feelings - his love - that's simple. if Dimitri wants it, then it's even simpler, too. He doesn’t even have to love him back. Honest.

Felix takes a deep breath. Waits for Dimitri to meet his eye.

_“I_ would,” he says.

*

Dimitri loves him back.

That’s probably the most ridiculous part of it all - that the idiot was so deep in his self-loathing that he never even considered that Felix might actually have feelings for him too.

Not that Felix had any idea about _Dimitri’s_ feelings, but that is beside the point.

They marry swiftly - the nobles all but cry in relief that Dimitri is finally taking a consort, and Felix doesn't mind going along despite Dimitri's fretting that they have not courted enough. What have they been doing their entire lives if not courting? 

Well, apart from being idiots, it seems.

And even if Felix had reservations... The way Dimitri's entire face lights up when Felix shrugs and says he sees no reason to postpone, as if Dimitri is still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for some cruel confirmation that it is nothing but an elaborate joke - that alone would be enough to convince him.

“But are you _sure,_ Felix?” Dimitri asks anyway, giddy, his lips red and shiny and puffy from too many kisses - though still not nearly enough, in Felix’s opinion. “Are you sure you want - this?”

“Yes, flames, will you stop?” Felix pulls himself away from the important task of sucking a bruise near Dimitri’s collarbone, above the bump where the broken bone healed at a wrong angle. 

It irks him - to have his feelings doubted with such determination even when they are literally naked in bed together, and not even for the first time.

But there is a melancholy in Dimitri that seems to be beaten back with Felix’s reassurance, and so he runs his hands up Dimitri’s bare chest - his full, glorious pectorals in the heavy lacework of scars - traces the pale hoop of scarring on his neck and finally cups Dimitri’s face. He tilts it to make their eyes meet.

“I _want_ this,” Felix says, gives a meaningful roll of his hips against Dimitri’s. “I want _you.”_

Dimitri nods urgently, and pulls him up, and kisses him, tangling fingers in his hair, curling a warm arm around his waist. As if Felix would just decide to go at any moment. As if he would rather be anywhere else.

But it’s alright. Felix will convince him. They have all the time in the world now.

*

Dimitri is unwell.

That is what Felix realizes - that he is ill, and that it runs deeper than his blasted self-image issues. Perhaps deeper than his ghosts, too, for it does not leave him even after the war is over and he has achieved everything they have hounded him for.

They marry in early autumn, one year after the war’s end, and the euphoria of it carries them straight through the winter. Felix is happy, finally allows himself to feel it. And Dimitri looks happy too - his entire being seems lighter somehow, his face is softer, his laughter more ready. They are still busy, of course, terribly busy - the world doesn’t pause for their honeymoon, and their marriage doesn’t magically fix all the problems in Fodlan, just as Dimitri has predicted. 

But it _feels_ easier. Felix feels like he could go out right now and conquer the entire world all over again with Dimitri’s small, secretive smile as his only sustenance.

Which is...an unbearably cheesy thought, fit only for novels of chivalry and romance.

But so what? He is happy. They are happy.

But it doesn’t last. The illness seeps back in - or rather, it has never left, and the sheen of a temporary high is wearing off.

It’s small at first, sporadic. Felix needs to go to Fraldarius - he’s long overdue - but Dimitri has been acting aloof recently, lost in his thoughts, and the idea of leaving him sits uneasily behind Felix’s heart. 

But Dimitri waves him off, promises him to be fine. Seems fine, too, upon Felix's return a full moon later. The shadow under his eye might be deeper, the line of his shoulders a little more haunted, but Felix doesn’t find it in himself to blame Dimitri for it. He's missed him, too. He’ll make up for his absence.

Because, as Felix has discovered, sex is a sure way to make Dimitri feel better. Even if he is under the weather, as it seems to be the case more and more often lately, in bed he becomes enthusiastic and bold, eager to please and to be pleased in return, hungry for every caress once Felix coaxes him out of his shell and proves to him, time and time again, how beautiful and desirable he finds his scarred body.

The afterglow has an even bigger effect on Dimitri. He is calm and peaceful and serene as his mind is gentled into rest. Felix picks up on it, of course, just as he picks up on how the more intense sensations seem to lull him deeper into that rest that even his illness can't reach. How he can be brought to that serenity out of his ever-persistent melancholy. And so Felix fucks him harder, uses every trick he knows, resigns himself to embarrassing research when he runs out of ideas way too quickly - it’s not like he has a lot of experience, himself. There is definitely at least one horrible conversation with Sylvain - he shudders to think of it, even if it _was_ highly informative.

But it’s well worth it. Dimitri is ecstatic. The happiest Felix has ever seen him, howling his pleasure during and melting into a languid, blissed out puddle after. Looking sleepily at Felix like nothing exists apart from them. Beyond the warm safety of their bed, the entire world fades into obscurity.

He feels good. Felix makes him feel good. 

But it doesn’t help either. Not in the long run. The sadness starts creeping back in faster and faster. Soon, it dulls Dimitri’s eyes seconds after their breathing evens out. Soon, it stops leaving even while they have sex, and Dimitri turns his head away or throws an arm over his eyes or buries his face in Felix’s neck - and falls deeper into himself, and grows quieter and more reserved until one day he gently refuses Felix’s advances altogether.

“I am simply tired, beloved,” he apologizes, and Felix doesn’t know why he suddenly feels so close to panic. “I’d love to, believe me, but - ah. Maybe next time?”

Felix nods mutely and lies back down and pulls the covers up over them both, pillowing his head on Dimitri’s chest - thankfully, he does not protest this intimacy. Felix lacks this particular hunger for touch, but it seems to matter to Dimitri - or seemed, at least - so he will offer him this comfort. 

Dimitri feels warm beneath him. Alive. Felix takes his own comfort from that.

*

Dimitri is hurting himself.

Nothing obvious, maybe not even conscious - he does not pull on his hair, does not reopen his already scarred skin with blades. It's more insidious, with deeper, older, sturdier roots. 

He denies himself sleep. Trains to the point where even his Crest-powered endurance is tested. Picks at his food without eating much - and he was never enthusiastic about food since Duscur, but outside of his darkest times he has always managed at least to eat _enough_. 

It wasn’t this bad during the war, or even right after. They were all so exhausted, and hungry, and stressed - they drowned their bodies in whatever sustenance they could provide, slept in the strangest places, gulped down what medicine they had - anything for just one more push, one more fight, one more negotiation. 

It’s different now. the continent is slowly, finally settling into its hard-won peace. It should be easier - Dimitri should be feeling better, should be taking better care of himself - why isn't he? 

Felix loses sleep himself, obsessing over it, even as Dimitri is - ironically - snoring softly next to him, for once.

Why is Dimitri doing this? Why does he whittle away at his own body, as if punishing it - for what - for _living?_

Does he not _want_ to?

This is...a concern both new and familiar. Felix still remembers watching Dimitri - always watching, even back then, when he was returned to them, half-mad and wrathful. How he rushed into battle without any regard for his own safety, how he hurtled doggedly down whatever path his ghosts were setting up for him. Felix remembers being afraid that Dimitri would get himself killed purely because he seemed to care so little for anything that wasn’t his goal.

This, however… This feels deliberate.

A wave of anger rolls heavily in Felix’s gut at the thought. After all this - after all they’ve done, all they’ve achieved - now, when the war is no more and Fodlan is finally approaching normalcy and every morning Felix watches the first light glint on their wedding bands - and Dimitri wants to throw it all away? Why?

Goddess, why?

Felix tears at the question over and over for several days straight as he tries to puzzle out an answer, but there is nothing. It makes no sense to him. It just doesn’t.

And so he goes to the source. Dimitri is whiling the night away on their balcony again, and Felix has had enough. He steps out into the chilly air, the last hoar frost of the season crunching under his hastily yanked on boots.

“Do you want to die?” he snaps.

Dimitri turns around - there are melted grooves in the snow on the rail left by his elbows, how long has he been out? Sothis and all saints.

“Felix,” he appears to be surprised, but even that manages to sound dulled. “Did the cold wake you? The door must’ve cracked open.”

“Forget the door,” Felix waves it off. Takes in the circles under Dimitri’s eyes, the limp hair framing his face, pale in the meager light. “Answer my question.”

Dimitri’s brow furrows in confusion. “Do I - want to die? What gave you that idea?”

_‘He didn’t say no,’_ a small voice points out in the back of Felix’s mind.

He shakes it off, pushes on. “Then why are you treating yourself this way?”

Dimitri shrugs slowly, one shoulder going up and back down again. His loose nightshirt slides against it - he’s only wearing the nightshirt. _In Faerghan spring._ Felix is _already_ cold.

“You know I have trouble sleeping,” he says.

Felix does know. He knows that the ghosts haven’t abandoned him. That his nightmares are as bad as they ever were. Counts them lucky when Dimitri manages at least several hours of uninterrupted sleep in one night. Sex used to help - it exhausted and soothed Dimitri well enough to allow him to rest, but - it’s been a while, now. 

Dimitri looks at him and sighs when Felix doesn’t say anything. “It’s just hard sometimes,” he adds.

“It’s not just sleeping,” Felix finds his voice again. “You’re not taking care of yourself. I get it that you’re not well - but you’re not _doing_ anything to get better, either.”

“That is not true!” Dimitri points out with his eyebrows raised. “Remember when I used to overwork myself in the first months? It happens a lot less frequently now.”

_“Yes,_ because _I_ hired you an entire team to deal with the paperwork.” Felix reminds him. “You were perfectly content to work yourself into the ground.”

Dimitri means to say something but pauses and looks away, his eyebrows drawn together.

“And it’s not just that.” Felix, on the contrary, is unable to stop now. “I get that you don’t sleep - that you’re exhausted all the time - but you only seek to make it worse! How many lances have you splintered this week alone because you spend every spare second in the training yard?” 

It’s ironic that this is the complaint Felix, of all people, brings up to him, and Dimitri smiles, probably with the intention to point out exactly that, but Felix talks over him. “And don’t get me started on the food. When was the last time you ate properly? A year ago? Or at our wedding?”

Dimitri’s face softens in reminiscence, his gaze turning inwards, and Felix grabs him by the collar. The sudden touch snaps him back out.

“Focus, Dimitri,” he says. “How many quills have you broken recently? How many clothes have you torn? You’re tired, yes, and distracted, and sad, and - tell me this. When have you last spent time with another person for any reason other than work?”

Dimitri opens his mouth.

“Except for me,” Felix adds, watches him close his mouth again. Ingrid and Dedue might be away, yes, but Sylvain is in Fhirdiad often enough, and Annette and Mercedes live here, and Byleth would probably be thrilled to sneak out of Garreg Mach given half the reason. When has Dimitri last seen any of them? For his birthday? That was moons ago. And they didn’t celebrate Felix’s because he had to be in Fraldarius at the time.

This makes Felix realize that he hasn’t been spending much time with anyone else either.

But this is different. He is different.

Felix’s hand, fisted loosely in Dimitri’s collar, smoothes out again, presses against Dimitri’s chest. The heartbeat thuds under his fingers.

Felix is tired too. He doesn’t want to fight anymore.

“Do you understand that this will kill you?” he asks quietly.

Dimitri huffs out a laugh, tilts his head. His hair shifts, covering the ruin of his right eye. 

“Do not worry, beloved,” he says. “I have a duty before my country - I will not dishonour it by abandoning it before my time.” 

His smile is thin and tense, and just like that, the fight is back in Felix.

  
“‘The country’?” he repeats. “So you mean - what - if you were some commoner without the kingdom hanging over you, you’d be fine - abandoning your friends?”

_‘Abandoning me?’_ is what he doesn’t ask.

This hurts. Why does it hurt?

Why does Dimitri hurry to his grave?

Something must reflect on his face because Dimitri sighs and lifts a cold hand to touch Felix’s cheek.

“Oh Felix - of course not,” he says. “I only meant - this is my job. It is always going to be there. It’s always going to be something I need to do. I’m not going anywhere." 

He probably means it as reassurance, the earnest, honest fool.

As far as reassurances go, this is a shitty one. 

“Fucking hell, Dimitri.”

Felix turns around and steps back into the bedchamber. He marches straight over to the bed, kicks off his boots, and climbs in, burrowing under the covers and fighting off the shivers.

He didn’t mean to get mad at Dimitri. He really didn't. But it stings, and Dimitri might be the ill one in this relationship, but it doesn't mean that Felix has no right to feel fragile too, sometimes. 

Felix is still awake when Dimitri finally comes back in. He hears him make his way carefully in the dark, pause by the bed, sigh. Feels it dip under his weight as Dimitri gets in. They are not touching, but Felix still feels the chill of his body, the way it cools the air Felix has spent so much time warming up.

Felix keeps his eyes stubbornly closed, his breathing even. They’ll talk, yes, but not right now. He doesn’t want to be harsh to him again.

In the morning, Dimitri is gone by the time Felix wakes up, and they spend most of the day apart, busy with their respective duties. The distance gnaws at Felix until he can hardly think of anything other than their conversation.

Felix wants to apologize the moment he can - he might be right, yes, but he knows how cutting he can be, and these days, it’s something he gives a damn about - but Dimitri beats him to it.

“I’m sorry, Felix,” he says when they are finally alone in their favourite drawing room, the one with the books and the lovingly arranged swords. He sits down on the sofa, close to the fireplace. “You were right - I am not kind to myself. I don't mean to be like this. I just don’t know how to...to be alright again.” He looks away; the firelight caresses his face. “I don’t think I remember what it’s supposed to feel like.”

This is - this throws Felix off-balance. He expected platitudes and deflections and apathy - not an admission. 

This is progress, yes. But the things Dimitri is admitting are scary.

“You have to do something.” Felix sits down next to him, takes his hand. The ridges of scars bump against his fingertips through the silk. “You’re not alone - I’ll help you, we’ll all help you, but you have to put in the work. It’ll be useless otherwise. Do you understand?”

He looks Dimitri in the eye, wills himself not to break contact. 

At last, Dimitri sighs.

“I understand.” He squeezes Felix’s hand. “I will work on it.”

“Good.” Felix nods, remembers something belatedly. “I’m sorry. For - blowing up at you last night.”

Dimitri tugs him closer by their linked hands, presses a kiss into his hair. They sit there, watching the fire crackle, and Felix’s mind is already turning, laying down the groundwork of a battle plan.

Because this _is_ a battle. One Felix intends to help Dimitri win.

At the end of the day, Felix is no stranger to Dimitri’s troubles. He _knows_ what it’s like. He has his own nightmares, has been comforted through many of them by Dimitri already, with his hands gentle and his face gentler still. He knows the toll they take, the burden that bows even the sturdiest shoulders. He knows how hard it can be to fall asleep or to wake up sometimes. But he pushes through, and drags himself to the training yard, and distracts himself with work and reading and correspondence with friends even when they are away. He’s _fine._

So it's not that bad. It’s bad, of course, but not _that_ bad. He manages it, and so he knows that Dimitri can too. All their friends are still haunted by the war - and he knows that Dimitri’s wounds are older than that, but that just means that they must have been blunted with age by now, same as Felix no longer feels his heart crumbling to ash every time he is reminded of Glenn. It must be the same way for Dimitri. It has to be. 

They will find a way.

*

Dimitri tries, true to his word. 

He makes the effort to eat, tries to listen to his body when it asks for rest, stays dutifully in bed with his eyes closed even when he can’t sleep, consults the healers and does his best to follow their advice. 

Felix rallies their friends, and they hold a council not unlike how they did it during the war. Together, they figure out a plan. Fhirdiad residents drop by regularly or invite Dimitri out to the city - this soon includes Sylvain, who moves into the Gautier residence in the city. Dedue sends a herbal blend that is supposed to assist a frayed mind in piecing itself back together. Ashe and Ingrid send letters and books - Ashe, in particular, is busy compiling an anthology of the war and asks for Dimitri’s input, and Dimitri is obviously happy to be of use.

Not unlike Felix, Dimitri benefits from physical activity and being outdoors, and Felix makes sure to take him out sparring or riding or hunting. He doesn’t enjoy being on horseback, himself, but it’s well worth it.

With so many people in the mix, it takes a while to figure out a routine, but eventually it clicks, and for the first time in forever Dimitri arrives in their bedchamber genuinely tired from a long day well spent instead of the morose, aching exhaustion he’s been steeping in.

Felix is tired himself - he, too, has been spending more time than usual around people, and it drains him fast - but not tired enough to refuse when they settle in their bed and suddenly Dimitri rolls over and pins him under his weight, a mischievous glint to his eye.

Oh no. Actually, Felix is not tired at all.

Moons roll by, and for a while, it gets better. Dimitri’s skin regains some of its colour, and his smiles are not as forced anymore, and Felix dares to think that everything is going to be just fine.

But the novelty of the new routine wears off. A simple pleasure of a friend’s company becomes a chafing, uncomfortable duty. Dedue’s blend works for a while but soon begins to give Dimitri pounding headaches that do not wear off until he stops taking the tea.

They correspond with Dedue, and he makes adjustments, and they try again. For a few weeks on a new blend Dimitri looks like he could shatter from a careless word or touch, a manic kind of energy to his movements. 

Then, his body gets used to the tea, and for a few more weeks he evens out, grows more collected and present. Those are the good days. As good as they get.

Then, the side effects catch up - headaches, and nausea, and mood swings, and tremors, and insomnia, and sleepiness.

They write to Dedue. They try again. And again. And again.

Felix grits his teeth and bears on, but seeing Dimitri cycle through the same thing every time - it’s not easy. Felix frowns, and sends his observations to Dedue, and talks to the palace healers to figure out a way to combat the side effects, but where Dimitri used to be elated and hopeful, now he only sighs with resignation every time the new turn of the cycle completes.

Felix is almost relieved when another attempt only makes Dimitri numb and hazy. It still pains him, of course, seeing Dimitri like this: confused, drifting, not entirely here.

The crying is still worse though.

The year rolls through summer and into autumn, and Dimitri grows exhausted again. With exhaustion, the tears come - usually at night, wrenched out of him by his insomnia and the kind of despair that waits until dark to crush its victim.

Felix wakes up to Dimitri’s sobbing, to the way the covers shift as he curls up underneath them. He’s trying not to make noise, of course. Not to disturb Felix. He’s been waking him up like this way too frequently now.

“‘Mitri,” Felix mumbles, still half-asleep, even as he slides over and presses his chest against Dimitri’s quivering back. Dimitri only tenses further, his curved spine a taut line against Felix’s sternum. “‘ve got you.”

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri hiccups. His voice sounds raw, thick with tears. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I would do better if I could - I’m trying - I’m sorry.”

“Stop it.” Seeing him tear into himself like this - it hurts beyond belief, pierces Felix awake. Is this how it was for Dimitri back when Felix was the one wounding him? “You’ll get better.”

“What if I don’t?” Dimitri chokes out, and there it is - the fear in his voice. “What if - what if this is it? What if I’m too damaged?”

_”Stop,”_ Felix repeats. Holds him tighter, snakes a hand up to press the palm of it against his heart. The thought of letting him go is too scary. “You’ll be alright. I’m with you.”

Dimitri shudders. “I’m _sorry.”_

“Don’t apologize for _that,”_ Felix chides, places a kiss between his shoulder blades. If only he could fold Dimitri into his chest. Keep him safe and away from all this until he has rested enough to take on the world again.

He tugs at Dimitri’s shoulder. “Come on. Come here.”

With reluctance, Dimitri rolls over, scrubbing a hand over his face, eye not meeting Felix’s, ashamed and flayed.

But that’s alright. It’s alright.

Felix draws him in closer, cradles his head against his chest. There is immediately snot on the front of his nightshirt, and the arm Dimitri throws over his waist is squeezing him a little too tightly, but Felix holds him just as firmly in return until Dimitri’s hiccups subside.

“It’s too much,” Dimitri murmurs so, so quietly. “In my head. It’s too much.”

Felix rubs a hand down Dimitri’s back, dips his head to kiss his forehead. There are no words that can help here. If there are, Felix doesn’t know them.

It’s not the first time they end up curled up together like this. Felix knows it won’t be the last. That, in itself, doesn’t worry him - he will be here for Dimitri as many times as he needs.

What _does_ worry him is that it seems to be getting worse.

*

And worse.

And worse.

Dimitri retreats into himself again, so deep in his untameable sadness that people start noticing it show through the cracks. His persona slips when another attempt to balance the herbs goes wrong and he breaks down crying in the middle of a meeting, to everybody’s shock and alarm, and somehow, that event marks a new and terrible stage in his illness.

He retreats from their friends as well, and from Felix, to the point where Felix only feels - lost. And alone. Nobody sees Dimitri at his very worst, for now at least - not like Felix does. Nobody knows how he spends half of his nights crying and the other half staring numbly at the ceiling, deaf to Felix’s words, numb to his touch.

Some of the nights he spends on the balcony again. At times, Felix passes back out before Dimitri’s return to bed and wakes up to find the blankets littered with leaves and twigs, of all things. As if Dimitri’s been wandering throught he palace grounds, leaving his bed in the moonlight like some sort of wild creature, uncaring for his safety, uncaring for anything.

Felix doesn’t know what to do anymore. He really, truly doesn’t. Dimitri is slipping away from them, and Felix clings to him as hard as he can, but the distance between Dimitri and the surface of his skin is too great, and he doesn’t hear him no matter how many times Felix calls.

When the first snow falls and settles, Felix orders to prepare a hunt. Even if riding and being outdoors doesn’t take Dimitri out of his head anymore, at least it will jostle his body around. Maybe some movement will do him good.

Dimitri only nods when Felix informs him of the plan. 

Well. A nod is still something.

They ride out at dawn, a small hunting party of a dozen horsemen and three dozen bay dogs. It’s quiet in the Dark Woods, and the only motion that responds to their intrusion comes from the gentlest flurries floating down from the branches as they move past them, settling soundlessly on people’s cloaks. They go slow, the horses finding their way through the fresh snow, until the hounds pick up a scent on a fresh trail and raise hell, disappearing swiftly deeper into the forest. The riders follow.

It’s a boar, as far as Felix could make out from the stomped over tracks and the calls of the hunters. He doesn’t really care - his focus is on Dimitri’s straight back as he takes off after the dogs. He hasn’t spoken much since they left the palace grounds, but Felix lets it slide - the hunts are mostly silent anyway until the chase begins. He seems alert enough at least, guiding his horse with surety and skill. There is colour on his cheeks, his fingers are tight around the reins.

It’s purely physical, most likely. But Felix will take it.

Dimitri reins his horse in ahead of him, and Felix does the same, guiding his mare to halt beside Dimitri’s in a small clearing.

They are - alone. No dogs, no riders.

In the commotion of the hunt, the labyrinth of the wild forest, the concentration of following Dimitri, Felix didn’t notice that they broke away from the party. 

He twists in his saddle, strains his hearing, trying to catch any sounds over the muffled blanket of snow, but there is nothing. Wherever they are, it’s too far away from everyone else.

“Great, getting lost is the last thing we-”

“Shh.”

Dimitri throws up a hand, and Felix stops mid-sentence. Dimitri’s eye is shiny, alert in a way it hasn’t been in moons, his gaze fixed on something beyond the treeline.

Briefly elated - it worked! it worked, after all, and who cares if they got a bit lost - Felix looks around the clearing.

It’s full of tracks, imprints of hooves crisscrossing each other, trampling the fresh snow. A boar - a big one. Definitely not the same one the hounds have scented.

A low rumble rolls over the clearing, and Felix belatedly remembers to follow the hard line of Dimitri’s gaze.

The beast makes its way out from behind the trees, its beady red eyes fixed on the two of them. It’s massive, standing taller than the withers of their horses. Its winter fur is shaggy and bristling, parting around the gouges of old scars.

Their horses are trained for swift flight over uneven and unpredictable terrain, trained to stay calm when pheasants flutter upwards from under their hooves or wolves howl their calls somewhere in the near distance.

But the beast is huge, and Felix’s horse whinnies, afraid.

Another rumble - threatening, low - and the boar lowers its head. Its curved, yellow, gory tusks point at Felix’s mare.

They should do something. They can’t fight it - not without the dogs to distract it, not with only two spears and two daggers between them - if it rams and topples a horse, its rider is as good as dead, Crest or no.

But dismounting will be fatal as well.

They need to leave, they need to leave _now._

“Dimitri,” Felix calls, urgent.

The boar charges.

Dimitri jumps off his horse, spear at the ready, and rushes the beast with a roar before Felix can even think about following. His cloak flies behind him, obscuring his figure, but the boar towers over him anyway, and its mass crashes against Dimitri, against the toothpick of his spear, and there is a horrible, sickening crunch and tear and cry, and the snow suddenly steams crimson, and Felix’s heart stops.

*

“I will leave His Majesty to rest,” the healer says, wiping her hands. “You should rest too, Your Highness.”

Felix barely notices her speak, barely hears her footsteps as she leaves.

“You idiot,” he whispers, wills his tears away. “You absolute _idiot._ What were you _thinking.”_

Dimitri’s hand twitches in his. “It would’ve…” he says, winces, presses on. “It would’ve hurt you.”

Felix grits his teeth, looks away from Dimitri’s form. He can’t look at the bandages anymore, can’t keep measuring the time by the growing size of the bloodstains.

It _wouldn’t_ have hurt him - or Dimitri, or anyone - if they just turned and left the moment they saw it. If they never broke away from the party. If - if Felix never dragged him to this hunt in the first place.

Fuck.

Felix grinds his teeth harder together, bites back a furious sob. _Fuck._

It tore through Dimitri’s abdomen. A few inches higher, and a tusk would’ve caught a lung, and Dimitri would be dead by now, suffocated with his own blood, out there in the snow, trampled under the beast’s hooves.

He is alive - for now. But the faces of the healers are grim. Felix doesn’t need to be a healer himself to understand - the visceral, raw stench alone was more than enough.

It’s bad. It’s very bad.

Felix has no recollection of getting Dimitri back to the palace. There are still specks of blood on him even after he’s been convinced to change out of the hunting gear, and his thighs ache from the hard ride - so he must have carried him here somehow. 

Dimitri’s ragged gasp brings Felix back to the present. The spells must be wearing off again. They barely keep the pain at bay, and Dimitri twitches, agitated, as it blooms brighter.

Felix yells for a healer, and then there is more commotion, and more spells, and more attempts to get Felix to leave, but - where is he going to go? What is he supposed to do? Even if he could possibly leave Dimitri right now and go rest - _where_ would he? This is their bed.

They are left alone again, with the promise for the pain to become easier to bear soon, and Felix reaches out to wipe the tears sliding down Dimitri’s temples.

Dimitri quivers at the touch - or maybe at the pain - turns his face away in shame, apologetic even on his deathbed.

“I”m sorry,” he rattles, squeezes more tears into the pillows. The pain has made him more lucid. “Felix, goddess, I’m sorry. I don’t want to - please, I don’t want to die. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not going to,” Felix promises even as the bandages keep growing darker. “You’re going to be alright, do you hear me?”

Dimitri shakes and nods and shakes again, the strength of his grip grinding Felix’s bones together. He lets him. As long as he is alive…

If coming so close to death is how Dimitri finally finds the strength to fight for his life - Felix will take it. Felix will take anything.

Several days pass - Felix doesn’t know, how many. He hasn’t slept. Dimitri falls unconscious sometimes when he grows so exhausted that even the pain can’t keep him awake, but that hardly means anything.

He is feverish, almost too hot to the touch. The fever refuses to break, his body devouring itself as it fights the wound. The healers fuss over him - Mercedes comes over, too, oversees their efforts. But there is only so much the spells can do: potions would be a bigger help, but Dimitri cannot drink anything - even a sip of water causes him tremendous pain. 

His face is pinched and drawn and papery with fever. His cheeks are hollow and strange when Felix rests his hands on them, trying to take away some of the heat burning him alive. It’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

Dimitri fights. He fights as hard as he can - but the damage is too great, and there is precious little they can do to help him.

There is talk of regency now. They have no heirs yet - Dimitri has expressed a hope to adopt in a few years. Right now, there is nobody except for Felix, but he snarls away the one person brave or foolish enough to try to broach the subject with him.

What’s the point? What will it matter after Dimitri gets better anyway?

Felix stays in a chair by the bed - he doesn’t even get into it, afraid to jostle Dimitri. But he stays there, and talks to him, and wipes away his tears - though he barely cries anymore, either too tired or with too little water left in him. Felix cries in his stead.

Dimitri barely responds anymore, either. 

But he has to keep fighting. He has to.

“You have to live,” Felix whispers to him one night, leaning as close as he dares, watching the shadows of his eyelashes fan out over his sharpened cheekbones. “It’s all going to be so much easier after this. You just need to get through this one thing, alright? Just this one thing.”

Dimitri doesn’t say anything - he is dozing, eyes flitting to and fro under the thin skin. His breaths come fast and shallow, each wheezing out at the end.

Felix’s heart crumples and he bows his head. Suddenly it’s very hard to get his own breathing under control, but he tries. He can do that, at least.

Eventually, even Felix can’t stay awake any longer and he falls asleep, his head pillowed uncomfortably on his crossed forearms. His sleep is brittle and troubled, the ache in his bowed back threatening to wake him at any moment. But goddess, he is so tired.

Through the haze of sleep, he feels something squeeze softly around his fingers. A soft noise grazes his hearing. A tug at his tired mind - it is something important...isn't it?

He would squeeze back. He would wake up and listen. He really would. But he is too heavy with sleep, and his arms have grown numb under the weight of his head.

Felix sleeps on.

When the cold morning light seeps in between the drawn curtains, finally calling him awake, Dimitri’s body is already just as cold.


End file.
